


Rent(-a-)Yak

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack Fic, M/M, Yaks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-04
Updated: 2006-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Great Yakfucking Debacle of 2006. Don't ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rent(-a-)Yak

*

"Hey," Dean says. "Listen to this: _First tie yourself onto the other end of the rope, then shake the bucket of nuts and quickly put it down. The yak charges down the mountain after the nuts, pulling you up it at rocket speed._"

Sam makes a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a dry gargle, and flops a mostly-numb hand over his face. "Jesus, Dean," he grates. "What time is it?"

"Five," Dean says, and Sam lifts his head, squints. Pale light's coming in through the thin curtains, Dean's sitting fully clothed (including magazine in one hand) on the edge of the other bed, directly opposite Sam. "Did you know that if you feed yaks chocolate they _transform into slobbering, compliant puppies?_"

Sam groans again, flips the sheets up over his face. Early morning's never been good to his temper. "Dean. _Enough with the yaks already_. Seriously, what the hell?"

"What?"

"This is the…" Sam does a quick mental tally. "Fifth time in _two days_ that you've waxed lyrical about goddamn _yaks_ to me."

Dean scoffs. "I don't …_wax lyrical_."

Sam pulls the sheet down again, raises an eyebrow at him. He clears his throat. "Hey Sam," he quotes. "Did you know that the yak is the gentle giant of the frigid Himalayan ranges?"

Dean coughs briefly, scratches his nose. "You should have a shower before we get to work," he says. "Still got that … that crazy starlet to deal with."

Sam blinks. "Okay then," he says. And he does want to have a shower. Only reason he's not arguing. That and the fact that Dean's constant yak-obsessing is freaking him out, just a little bit.

*

When he steps out of the bathroom again, Dean's not in the motel room. Sam frowns, glances around first before glancing down. He blinks. There's something on the bed. Something… furry. Not entirely misshapen, more like… more like someone's skinned a giant plush animal, then left the pelt laid out on Sam's bed.

"Dean!" he bellows.

The door opens. Sam's jaw drops.

"What the… are you…"

"Was just getting my hat out of the car," Dean says, grinning, and puts on a pith helmet.

Sam blinks. "I thought you didn't 'do' shorts." He says flatly.

Dean looks down at himself. "It's not so bad with long socks," he says. "More coverage."

"Okay," Sam says, making himself look away from the immensely disturbing site where Dean's shirt tucks into the smooth-ironed khaki shorts belted somewhere _above_ his navel. "I won't even… no wait, what the hell is _this?_"

"A yak suit," Dean beams. "For you."

"A yak suit." He can see it now; furry chestnut one-piece, shaggier around the shoulders, a headband with two plastic horns attached.

"Uhuh."

"You bought me a yak suit."

"_Rented_ you a yak suit."

Sam isn't sure if he's more relieved that Dean didn't actually _spend money_ on it, or horrified at the idea that the yak suit has been _used_.

"Hey, no need to make that face. It's been dry cleaned, I asked."

Sam laughs, the sound holding more raw hysteria than humour. "Okay, so, even ignoring the fact that we didn't 'do' Halloween when we were growing up," he says. "It's no where near October. Are you… is there something you need to tell me, Dean?" The last part is spoken gently, delicately.

"Dude," Dean says, far too affronted for someone dressed like… like a goddamn suburban _safari hunter_. "What do you think I am? It's all part of the job, baby." He swaggers to where his duffel lies on the spare bed, draws out a shotgun. Holds it against his chest and runs his fingers idly against the double barrel before rifling around for the salt cartridges. "You gonna put that on or what?"

*

The house is big, real big, and Sam can hear the doorbell toll deep inside its depths as they stand on the expansive porch. It's not too late. They can still pretend they're some novelty telegram service or something.

The suit really fucking _itches._

"Stop squirming," Dean hisses.

"I can't help it," Sam mutters back. "This is worse than the itching powder."

Dean slants him a cock-eyed look. "But you _are_ wearing underwear, right?"

Sam doesn't answer.

"Dude," Dean says in a tone of vague awe. "In an _used yak suit_." His face is ruddy under the bone-skin of the pith helmet.

"Shut _up_," Sam said. "I can't help it that--" He halts himself on an explosive sigh. "Remind me why we're doing this again?"

"You've seen _Sunset Boulevard_."

Sam lets his pause last as long as it needs to. "That's not actually an answer, Dean."

Dean gives him a look of mild pity, presses the doorbell again. "The monkey."

"The monkey."

"Yeah. You know. They like, buried it and everything. That crazy old broad was obsessed with that monkey. Totally in love with it. It was the only thing that truly loved her."

"Yeah, and then she shot that guy in the pool."

"Missing the point here, Sammy."

"Which is?"

"The monkey totally haunted her."

"The monkey, Dean. _Monkey_."

"Yeah, well, here's where it gets tricky. Pay close attention, now. _This_ washed-up starlet didn't have a monkey." Dean pauses for dramatic effect. "This one had a _yak_."

As if on cue, the huge door in front of the opens and they freeze on the spot. The woman standing before them is tiny, bony, skin stretched taut across her face in a way that makes it difficult to gauge her age. Her body angles in a practiced pose, silver-sparkling evening gown practically dripping off her.

The three of them stare wide-eyed at each other for a moment and then abruptly she gives a hoarse cry and falls into Sam's arms. It's a good thing the elastic binding the horns to his head isn't constricting enough to effect his reaction times, anyway.

"I knew it," she moans. "I knew you'd come back!"

Dean gives Sam the double thumbs-up over the woman's heaving shoulder. Sam barely has time to roll his eyes before there’s sudden tear-inducing pain; the woman’s clenched her fist in his hair, yanks at it absently as she turns to face Dean again.

"Thank you," she says. "Thank you _so much_. I knew you’d be able do it. As soon as I saw you, I _knew_ it." She yanks again, Sam bites back a curse.

Dean grins harder, tips the pith helmet back a little, off his forehead. "Ma’am," he says, "There is no need whatsoever to thank me. I’m just glad you got your yak back, is all."

"Paddyak," the woman says.

"Beg pardon?"

"My little Paddyak." She smooshes the words out through pouted lips, drags Sam’s head down and rubs her face in his hair, then wraps both arms around his neck.

Even Dean looks a little startled, shrugging blankly in response to Sam’s glare. Sam is going to kill him, he's decided.

"Come inside, come in," the woman says, and Dean follows them. Swaggering.

*

"Dean," Sam hisses when she finally - _finally_ \- leaves the room, if only momentarily. "This is seriously _fucked_. She's delusional. We can't just… take _advantage_ of her like this!"

"No one's taking advantage of anyone," Dean says, swirling his brandy snifter with a loose wrist, lounging on a huge leather armchair. Sam's sitting on the rug, and can just about see right up Dean's shorts. "She's not giving me any money. The neighbors paid me to find whatever the hell was tearing up their precious rose bushes. Besides," He takes a swig of brandy, looks idly around the room. "I spent most of the money already, so your conscience can quit working itself up for something."

"Spent it? On _what?_"

"Costumes," Dean says, like it's the stupidest question in the world. "Anyway, do you think we came here to be pampered and--" he smirks again, eying Sam's hair. "--Groomed? I'll check the inside while you check the outside."

"For _what?_"

Dean grins. "Gotta find out where the monkey's buried, dude."

"Outside time!" comes the abrupt, sing-song call, and Sam startles. Dean's grin turns into a smirk.

*

Sam doesn't take his eyes off Dean, standing and watching them through the window, while the woman leads him into the pen and makes a fuss over re-latching the gate again. Sam waits til she goes back inside then grips the top rail, boosts up and swings his legs over, landing lightly on the damp grass. Thank god 'boots' had been close enough to 'hooves' in Dean's book. And what the hell does a yak grave look like anyway?

Apparently it looks like a pool house. Or apparently the pool house looks like a shrine, because there're Tibetan prayer flags strung up all around it, incense burning, baskets of hay placed around its perimeter.

And a huge fucking yak. Standing right in the middle of it.

Sam freezes in place for several long moments before he realizes the yak's not actually moving. Not actually breathing, even, or blinking, and its eyes are kind of glassy. He approaches it cautiously. Close up it smells kinda musty, kind of animal-y, which, huh, is to be expected.

"So you're Paddyak," he says to it, finally relaxing, and pokes the stuffed animal's forehead. It's cold and hard. "Can't say I envy you."

He sighs, turns to head back to the house. Dean brought the pyro gear; Sam'd watched him load it into the trunk. Watched the desk clerk watch the man in the yak suit watch the guy in the safari suit load a can of gas into the trunk, more specifically.

Sam shook his head. The sooner they got the hell out of LA, the better.

He shivers abruptly, a sudden whisper of cold across the bared skin of his face and throat. The dark water of the pool in front of him ripples as if in echo, then the wind is stronger, a sudden blast of it against Sam's body, making him stumble. It doesn't entirely fall silent afterward.

In fact, there's the sound of a decidedly loud snort behind him. And another. The reverberating _thud_ of an extremely heavy hoof against the deck of the pool house.

Sam wastes precious moments turning around, meeting the yak's decidedly no longer _glassy_ but rather _glowy_ eyes before the animal instincts kick in and he bolts.

The fucking suit is too small for him. Not enough that he doesn't fit in it at all, but enough that it pulls and pinches in places that restrict his limbs and torso from lengthening out into the full strides of flight, and he's ran around the house twice (past the fucking well-lit picture window, where the _hell_ is _Dean?!_) before he gains enough that he has time to struggle out of the top half of the goddamn fur-suit, at least, let the loose skin of it hang around his hips and his body moves more easily, bursts forward, gives him breath enough to bellow, "_Dean!_" next time he goes past the window.

Then there's a shot, and Sam stumbles to a halt, panting. When he turns he sees Dean standing on the porch, pale khaki shirt and shorts combo serving as contrast to the darkness of his expression. He holds the shotgun up for a little longer making sure the yak's well and truly _down_ before he slowly lowers it. His stance loosens as he walks on down the steps toward where the yak is lying stiffly again, hole blasted through its chest, bleeding clumps of white stuffing.

Dean peers at it, doesn't look up as Sam hobbles closer, still breathing heavily, bare chest heaving.

"Dude," Dean says at length. "When I say 'burial or cremation', I really mean _burial or cremation_. Don't you ever do that taxidermy shit on me, I don't care how much you miss me."

Sam gives him a look of mild disgust. "You are _such_ an asshole."

"What?"

"The goddamn undead possessed yak was chasing me around the house for like, 20 minutes before you even _got_ here!"

"I saw you," Dean says easily. "Went to go get supplies." He gestures back toward the porch, where the can of gas sits. "Besides, you might not have been in any danger. Who says poor old Paddyak's intentions weren't… amorous?"

"I hate you," Sam says. "I really, really hate you."

"You really don't," Dean says, and tweaks Sam's nipple absently. Sam's leg gives an automatic kick, and he grumbles under his breath as Dean goes to retrieve the gas.

Burnt yak hair really, really stinks. "I'm never eating hamburgers again," Sam says, covering his mouth and nose with his hands.

"Whatever, nature boy," Dean says, and Sam doesn't have time to retort because there's a sudden, unearthly shriek from behind them.

"_Paddyak!_"

And then crazy starlet's stumbling down the steps towards them, stopping briefly to grope around under the foliage of a potted plant to pull out -- shit. A snub, silver pistol.

The first shot's accompanied by another shriek, but Sam's already running at that stage, darting and dodging and hearing Dean's heavy, thudding steps behind him. They clamber over the fence at the far end of the yard, then move more stealthily through the Mulholland scrub.

"Shit," Dean's moaning, "my car. Fuck, man, my car!"

They come out of the half-hearted undergrowth a little to the west and cross the road, making their slow, plodding way back alongside it to where the car's parked. The sun beats down and the lower half of the yak suit continues to itch. The top half of it bounces against the backs of Sam's knees when he walks. He's going to have killer sunburn, but it's still better than sweating to death in a yak-shaped sauna, at this point. A few cars speed along the road; two out of three slow as they pass.

"What the hell," Sam mutters after it happens a third time, and Dean looks over his shoulder at him, quirks an eyebrow. "Are they marveling at how you can possibly keep your socks up for this long or something?"

Dean smirks, slows a little so that Sam can catch up, walk alongside him. "Dude," he says. "Says the weird-ass man-animal hybrid thing."

"I'm not a man-animal hybrid," Sam mumbles.

"You totally are. You're like a mermaid. With fur. A yakmaid. Meryak. Half-and-half, though--" He grabs a generous handful of Sam's ass, gives a quick squeeze. Sam reciprocates by stomping on his foot. "--Ow. Swapping the halves around might be kinda hot, too."

"That's sick, Dean."

"Hey, there are _plenty_ of religions and mythology out there about weird-ass man-animal hybrid things and how hot they are. Take fauns, for instance."

He eyes Sam appraisingly, Sam deliberately doesn't look back.

"In fact, I'm totally up for some faun-dling right now."

Sam shakes his head, refusing to rise to it. It's too fucking hot, the car's just around the corner. Just the motel, _please_, and a goddamn shower.

"You are, after all, quite deer to me."

"_Dean._"

"What? I can't help it that you moove me--Ow! That was completely unnecessary." A pause. "Hey, do we have any chocolate in the car?"

*

Things improve exponentially once he's shed the rest of the suit, kicking it with justified savageness into the corner of the bathroom, behind the cistern.

"Hey," Dean says from the main room. Sam can hear the tinkle of his belt buckle. "This was kinda fun."

Sam digs his fingernails into the skin of his thighs, scratching vigorously. Fucking _bliss_. "Yeah, maybe next time _you_ can be the goddamn livestock," he says, the words riding out on an involuntary groan of pleasure and subsequently losing some of their bite.

"Not livestock, Sammy," Dean says, and steps into the bathroom. "Prey." His shirt is untucked; socks pushed down to reveal knobbly, scarred knees. His hair is sweaty and messy from the ridiculous helmet; Sam wants to rub his face in it.

He doesn't flinch away as Dean reaches up; hadn't even realized until then that he was still wearing the fucking _horns_, and the sensation as Dean trails his fingernails along one is weirdly disembodied, faint vibration and shifting of a few strands of hair. Dean wraps his hand around the base of it, right where it intersects with Sam's skull. He bares his teeth in a grin. "Gotcha."

**Author's Note:**

> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1062725.html  
> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/44725.html


End file.
